22. Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
Noah
I have no rights to Lennon, but seeing her show up at the bar yesterday on a fucking date has driven me absolutely mad.
We aren’t together and went so far as to agree upon those terms.
I stare at her house, car parked in the gravel driveway with my phone in my hand. She’d asked me to help her pick out furniture prior to whatever shit show happened yesterday, and despite the undercurrent of frustration, I couldn’t help myself.
Me: Here.
I tilt my head against the back of the seat, my emotions a mess of threads I try to untangle.
Clear communication. That’s what we’d discussed in my class Friday night, and that’s what I’d attempted at the bar. Jealous and wanting, seeing her walk in that bar had me realizing how fucked up everything I felt was following my conversation with Alexis. I wanted Lennon–in whatever way she would have me.
So, when she exits the house, descending the porch wearing maroon leggings, an oversized sweater, and a beanie on her head, my chest tightens.
The door opens, and she climbs in with a soft smile on her pink lips. With cheeks slightly flushed from the cooler weather, she sighs, settling into the warmth of my vehicle.
“Hey,” I start, dropping my phone in the cupholder next to my coffee cup. My resolve to communicate clearly crumbles, the fear of spooking her overpowering me. “You ready?” I ask.
Lennon looks at me, smiling wider. “Yeah,” she answers before adjusting the beanie on her head. “Let’s make this bitch the best bed-and-breakfast in the Midwest.”
I chuckle, placing my hand on the back of her headrest to back out of her driveway.
“You think we’ll have more luck here?” I ask, keeping my pace even with Lennon’s as we near the store. The giant automatic revolving door greets us when we enter the blue building and walk toward the escalator.
The showroom stretches out on the second floor, exposed ductwork overhead making the entire space feel like a warehouse–which I suppose it is.
“Well, I hope so,” Lennon answers. “It would be too time-consuming to thrift everything .” One boot steps off the escalator, and I follow her to the showroom. She looks like she’s stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalog–like a cozy autumn hike that leaves you breathless when you finally reach the view you’d been looking for.
I, on the other hand, look as though I’m ready to teach a class with my dark academia-style sweater and dress pants. The pants, for what it’s worth, are more casual.
It is the weekend, after all.
An arrow on the ground guides us between the individual sections built to resemble real living spaces, and Lennon strides toward the first staged showroom, throwing herself onto a cream-colored cushion.
Crossing her legs, she beams up at me. “Think I need a new couch?” she asks as I sink into the spot beside her.
A smile dances on my lips. “Yours is quite small,” I remark, noting the difference in size of the sofa.
“It’s kind of a problem for guests, isn’t it?” Lennon scrunches her nose, and my eyes trace over her freckles before meeting her gaze once more. She sighs, leaning her head back against the couch, and I do the same. “Plus, the living room is bigger in the house. I could add chairs, too. It just needs more seating.” She blows out a breath and looks up at the ceiling. “Right now, it looks so empty.”
I close my eyes, drumming my hands on my stomach. I can feel the warmth of her gaze when she turns to me, but I don’t look.
It’s eating me alive, not knowing where I stand with her–wanting her just the same. Remembering the way her breath hitched, her reddening cheeks, the way her bottom lip looked ready to devour has my body warming. Did she sleep with that guy? After what we did in the barn, I had assumed–
There’s never been talk of us being anything but friends and casual. In fact, there hasn’t been a lot of talk at all, and I’m itching to figure out what is going on in her head. I don’t have rights to those details, though. And what if she did see us as something more than just friends?
I’m beginning to admit that I might want that, but could I pull it off? I fucked up around Julia, yesterday.
Fuck.
“What are you doing?” she asks, a soft laugh escaping her.
I turn my head to look at her and raise a brow, my head still resting on the plush cushion to our backs. “Too good for napping,” I say. “You don’t want guests falling asleep in communal spaces. It’s rude.”
I stand dramatically, making my way across the walkway to the next room over. “Now this,” I say, throwing myself on the significantly smaller couch. Green velvet and wide cushions. It could work if she’s purchasing chairs as well. And I’m sure the price tag would be nicer.
“Noah,” Lennon says while standing over me. I want to drown in the way she says my name. “This isn’t a sectional.”
I move around a little to make my point. “Yeah, but look. The cushions are wide.” I recall the detached way she introduced me to the guy yesterday, the way she refused to look at me. I test the waters. “You could spoon all night after watching unpopular movies with the guy you have mutual friends with.”
Lennon doesn’t flinch. She just raises a brow at me, still standing and refusing to join me. “I suppose that guy with mutual friends might consider fucking me on the couch and then fucking one of his colleagues on her couch a week later.”
I’m certain the color drains from my face. “I didn’t fuck her, and she isn’t a colleague.”
Lennon turns to sit next to me, but there’s a clear distance between us. “Then who is she, if not a colleague?”
I know I should answer her–should end this before it begins, but I can’t help it. Lennon enjoys her privacy, but I’m desperate to know what she’s thinking–how she feels. “Would it matter who she was?” I ask.
“No.” She spits her answer out so fast I barely catch it.
There’s a quiet between us–six inches of space and plenty of unspoken words as I stare at her. “Would it matter, Lennon?” I ask again, feeling my heart like a drum behind my rib cage. “Would it matter if I told you I haven’t been with anyone in weeks?”
She rolls her eyes. “You already said that yesterday during your tantrum.”
“It’s true.” I risk leaning closer, the sweet scent of jasmine and amber surrounding me. “I can’t fucking think about anyone else,” I admit. My class would be proud. Jane Austen would be proud.
Lennon turns, our faces so close I can see each individual freckle dotting her nose–her cheeks. I want to trace them, connect the dots, and see if they’ll unveil whatever she has running through her mind. Her lips part, making me aware of every breath that passes through them.
The giant warehouse shrinks down to just us–just the small space separating me from her. I lower my voice. “It’s just you, Lennon.”
“You tell that to all of them?” she asks, her voice a near whisper, her eyes searching.
I hold her gaze. “There’s none of them . Not since you.” Another breath, and I fight the urge to lean forward–press my mouth to hers and pull her bottom lip gently between my teeth. “You, on the other hand–”
“I left after the bar.”
My brows shoot up.
“I couldn’t sleep with him. I couldn’t even be around him without thinking about what you said.” She swallows, and I watch her throat, remembering how it felt to place my mouth there, to brush her skin with my thumb and listen to the small sound that snuck out. “I couldn’t be with someone knowing I’d be thinking of you the entire time.”
A thrill shoots down my spine at the thought. I want to pull her on top of me, feel the soft strands of her hair woven through my fingers and tug until my mouth lands on her neck, drawing sounds from her lips before kissing them away.
The reality of two screaming toddlers shocks me out of my thoughts.
Lennon sucks in a breath, looking out to the parts of the showroom we haven’t seen. With the trance broken, she stands, moving toward another couch. “Whoa,” she says, and I’m helpless to follow. “Look at this bathroom.” Lennon smirks, tucking herself into the small shower. “It’s so tiny.”
With more walls, this part of the showroom hides us better, so I join her. My chest brushes her back when I stand amid the white tile. There’s no way someone would want this damn thing. You couldn’t even wash your ass.
I turn, noting every part of her body that touches mine. Heat blooms in those spots, warming my blood. “Hardly any room in here,” I observe before leaning forward, trailing my nose up her neck until I’m whispering in her ear. “Bend over and see if I can–”
“Nope,” Lennon walks away, but I don’t miss the smile playing on her lips.
I catch up to her, and she turns to face me.
“We should probably quit stopping,” she says. “I’m technically here to find storage.” She waves her hands around. “Not all of this.”
When her boots follow the arrows on the smooth concrete flooring, I follow her, my fingers brushing hers, just briefly. “You have some other place to be?” I ask, not really knowing how long she was planning to do this for.
“No,” she answers before chewing on her bottom lip. “I just don’t want to take up your whole day today.”
My fingers twitch, brushing against hers again. “Lennon,” I start, noting the way she doesn’t pull away. We keep walking, and I let myself take her hand, weaving our fingers together. A smile stretches across my face when I look at her. “I want nothing more than to have all my days taken up by you.”
Lennon picked out two bookshelves, and I’m thankful to have a project that doesn’t require heavy research before beginning. The only issues I have are the confusing as shit pictures and the tiny ass tool they gave me to make it all work.
The good news is that Lennon put the other bookshelf together alongside me, so it’s more of a team effort. It also gives me more time with her.
“You good, there?” I watch her concentrated expression as she places a nail and hesitates with the hammer.
“Don’t be sexist.” Lennon bangs the nail into the wood until it’s fully seated before finally looking up with a satisfied smile on her face.
I focus on placing the back piece of the bookshelf, finding the nails and setting to work.
With a firm grip on the hammer, I swallow, not knowing how to bring up my next question. “So,” I start between each bang of the hammer. The rhythm distracts from the vulnerability–the way I’m showing all my cards at once. “You consider my offer about my family's Thanksgiving?”
Lennon misses, pulling her thumb between her lips and sucking. “Fuck,” she whispers.
I gently wrap my fingers around her wrist, inspecting the spot where the hammer hit her. It’s pink but doesn’t look too bad.
She snatches her hand away. “You’re being sexist.” She smiles. “I can take a small pounding.”
I laugh, sitting back onto the floor, as her smile breaks wider, white teeth flashing. “Yeah, okay,” I say. I pick up my own hammer, keeping an eye on her as she finishes nailing the back of her own bookshelf to the wood. “You didn’t answer my question. My family?”
She doesn’t look at me, but the corners of her mouth remain pulled up–just slightly. “Yeah, sure. Only if you’re willing to fly to Minnesota and protect me from all judgment.”
I hear the sarcasm in her tone–the way she thinks I must be joking. I am not. “Yeah,” I say. “I already agreed to that. Tell me when, and I’ll get flights.”
What has possessed me to meet Lennon’s family? I have no idea. Maybe it’s that I want to meet the asshole that is her father–maybe I just want to be in her world. Regardless, I will have time off as the college students head home for break, and I want her with me at my parent’s house, too.
Something shifted while we were shopping today. I can still feel the warmth of her hand in mine, the press of her mouth to my cheek when I found the exact bookshelves we are working on.
I want to let her in. I don’t want to be just friends, but I can’t get myself to say it–not yet.
Lennon pauses, staring at me. “You don’t really have to do that.”
“I want to.” We’ve both stopped building. “There’s nothing I’d rather be doing with my Thanksgiving.” When I offer a small smile, I realize just how true the statement feels. The idea of spending three days with her, seeing her childhood home? I can’t think of anything more appealing.
“If you’re serious.”
“Oh, I’m completely serious.”
We finish the bookshelves; the conversation diverting to at least ten other topics before we’re done and staring at our handiwork placed strategically against the wall in the living room.
I adjust the watch on my wrist. “Planning on filling these with books about people fucking?”
Lennon smiles. “The guests will be so happy, they’ll never want to leave. I’ll be a raging success.”
I laugh. “Yeah, but you may be the one wanting to leave. Hearing all that through the walls and the ceiling. It’s unfortunate that your bedroom is on the bottom floor.”
She runs a finger along the wooden shelf. “Not unfortunate if you ever come over to visit.” Her cheeks turn pink as she refuses to look at me.
I feel the blood rush to my cock. “Yeah?” I ask, watching as she inspects the shelves. Her fingers run along the stained wood, and all I can think about is how it would feel to have her touch me–have her relieve this ache. “Why is that?”
Lennon turns, her eyes bright with desire. “I am really very good at being quiet, Noah.” Her tongue peeks out to wet her bottom lip. “Like I said, I can take it.”
My eyes linger on her mouth–utterly kissable–before returning to her green gaze. “You’re good at being quiet?” There’s a challenge in my question, followed by a brief pause–one charged with all the tension buzzing between us.
I can’t help the memories of her flooding my mind–thinking about her in that damn skirt at the bar, wishing she’d worn it for me.
“Are you hungry?” she asks. “For lunch, I mean. I probably have something in the kitchen, and then we could play a game?”
I clear my throat. “Sure, yeah. That sounds good.”
Lennon turns on her heel, walking away, and I can’t help the way I stare at her as she goes–thinking about all the ways I could make her promise to keep quiet so utterly difficult.